The Staff of the Winds (The Wizard of South Corner Book 1) (17 page)

This use of the gorn would also break up any organization that the farmers might be forming in response to the earlier raid on their village, and it would move the location of any conflict, if there was to be conflict, far enough away from his primary mission that he would be allowed complete freedom of movement.

With the wizard’s apprentice among the youth in the lower dungeon, the other captives would represent no threat, and the twenty-two soldiers he had at his command should be sufficient (though on the light side) to guard them and put them to work. That same number of soldiers was definitely not sufficient to protect themselves both day and night from thirty-nine gorn, especially from gorn frustrated by the temptation of helpless prisoners that must be maintained in adequate health to work.

This assignment of Sardang and his file was a near perfect solution to all problems, and it naturally fit the gorn temperament. Furstiv could already see the gleam in Sardang’s eyes as the implications of his orders began to sink in. He would have liked to have a way to secure local slaves and supplies from the farms in a manner that would yield a higher percentage of undamaged goods, but he was constrained by the forces available, and he knew that Sardang would diligently insure that he did receive at least a reasonable share. He would be well motivated to provide satisfaction so that the slaughter would be allowed to continue as long as possible.

Owen stood deep underground.  The ancient rock walls close around him were damp and slimy.  They were not of fitted stones, but rather native rock roughly cut by the excavation of large blocks.  The splitting and carving of the granite had left the walls with many irregular depressions and long vertical scars and cracks.  He was standing facing one of these walls, mere inches away.  The head of the staff in his hand glowed with a pale golden light that carried down the short passage to heavy wooden doors at either end.  The passage was also illuminated from a source that Owen could not identify, but reminded him of an early morning on the farm while a light mist still lay against the base of the Grey Hills.

This dream was unlike the raptor experiences he had the two nights before. In each of those visions, he had been transformed, or perhaps fully immersed in the owl that he had occupied for the night. The world around him had been unchanged, and nothing seemed at all strange to him. From the moment that he gazed out from his high perch, to taking wing, to using the abilities of the night hunter to scout his enemy, it all seemed perfectly natural.

Tonight was not the same. Tonight, he was himself, and it was his surroundings that had changed. He felt an initial moment of panic and a quick surge of anger, but quickly controlled it. He did not at all like to be manipulated in this way by forces he neither understood nor controlled, but on the other hand, he had learned much of value from his previous experiences; perhaps there was something of importance to be learned here tonight.

Suppressing his anxiety, he deciding to let instinct guide him—he had no knowledge or experience to draw on here—Owen turned to his right and approached the doorway there. On the other side was a rough stone spiral staircase. Owen chose to go down deeper into the depths. At the bottom, the hallway widened before another door. A small table and two simple wooden chairs sat in a little alcove next to the door. A battered old pewter mug and a candleholder sat on the table. There was a deck of moldy playing cards in a jumbled pile near the far corner.

Drawing the rusted iron bolt and opening the door, he thrust his staff in ahead of him. Down a short flight of stone stairs, was a larger room with tables, braziers and along one wall, various devices of torture. Beyond that room lay another door, and Owen could see a long, wide hallway flanked on both sides by small dark cells. Some of the heavy doors, each with a small grillwork of bars near the top and a narrow metal-covered slit near the bottom, stood open. Others were closed and secured with a heavy iron bar.

Owen started down the stairs, but as he did so the glow from his staff began to dim, and he felt a wave of sorrow and despair wash over him. The walls of this dungeon seemed to be permeated with the suffering of the tortured souls that had been imprisoned here ages ago, and they still radiated the sadness of those memories.

Reversing direction, Owen went back to the hallway towards the door at the other end. This door stood open, and as he approached, he could see that there was a stone stairway that wound up out of sight.

Feeling that it wasn’t time yet to climb the stairs, Owen returned to the spot in the hallway where he had first started. Staring at the wall in front of him, and without understanding why, he reached into a deep depression that was just above his head. Inside, he felt a thick metal bar, crusted with rust. Pulling hard on the bar yielded a grating click, and a section of the wall in front of him rotated slightly away.  Owen pushed on the section of rock wall that had moved, and the massive stone swung slowly and quietly in. Stooping to pass through the low doorway, Owen entered a narrow passageway that wound its way, descending slightly into the distance.

Suddenly, Owen realized where he was. Deep under the castle, the men of Carraghlaoch had built a secret exit through which they could escape in an emergency, or use to slip spies in and out of the fortress. He was about to learn just where this entrance was. All he had to do was follow this passage to its end, and see where it came out. Then in the waking world, they could use this tunnel to sneak into the fortress and maybe sneak some or all of the villagers out again. Excited now and grateful for the magic that had brought him here, he picked up his pace.

The passage soon leveled out, and the floor turned to damp, dark earth. The sides and ceiling were shored up with heavy timbers. The passage continued on for some distance, turning slightly now and then to avoid an occasional outcropping of rock too large to excavate secretly.

Finally, the tunnel began to rise, and Owen could see in the distance a set of rotting wooden steps leading up to a heavy door with some sort of iron locking mechanism. The roots of large trees had forced their way between the beams lining the passage near the door. If he could open that door, he would know of a way into the castle that the gorn were unlikely to have found, and if his friends were kept in that dungeon, there was at least some chance that with a little help he could get them out. Eagerly, he approached the steps leading up to the door.

The passage floor was rough, and he did not realize that he had tripped, but suddenly he felt himself falling forward.

“
…serabacht stromium alta barsolimame
. Ah, welcome my young friend,” he heard from a deep droning voice.

Owen was standing in a dark room facing a shallow round brazier, low to the floor and filled with darkly glowing coals. The earthen passage with its pale surrounding light was gone, along with the staff that he had been holding just an instant ago. The only light now came from the brazier, and it was low and indistinct. Of the room, he could see nothing in the darkness, but across the brazier he saw what appeared to be an old man seated cross legged on a cushion, wearing a long black robe. His sharp facial features were dimly lit, but his black eyes glinted from beneath the deep cowl. Across his lap, lay a wooden staff with the gold figure of the head of a snarling cat capping one end, the yellow gems for its eyes glowing softly.

A strong dread replaced the eager delight that Owen had begun to feel in the secret tunnel below Carraghlaoch. He did not know where he was now, but it was not Carraghlaoch, and somehow the magic that had brought him here did not feel benevolent.

A thin veil of green smoke rose from the dark red embers before him, and the old man’s arms were held out to the sides, as if guiding or smoothing the vile smelling vapor.

“I see that they have not yet moved you to the dungeon. That is fortunate. It gives us a chance to talk,” the old man said in a fatherly voice.  “You should not have approached me at the bridge, you know. You revealed yourself too soon, and gave me the chance to know your essence. Else I would not have been able to find you this night.

“That was an initiate’s error,” he continued with an oily smile.  “Gilladhe has not schooled you very well.  It makes me wonder whether it is worth the effort to turn you to my purposes.  But never mind, I am your master now, and your power will serve me as it seems best to me.  Whether your soul survives the conversion…  Well, that decision can wait until we meet in the flesh.  For now, let’s just expand our relationship.  What is your name?” he asked sternly.

Owen felt an instant compulsion to respond, and opened his mouth to answer. An equally sudden terror at what he was doing struck him, and he clamped his jaws tightly together. He could not provide this sorcerer with any more handles by which he might be summoned and held, and without knowing why, he was sure that his name would serve just that purpose.

The sorcerer leaned slightly forward, and staring intently at Owen commanded: “What is your name, boy?”

Owen became aware of a tightening in his chest. His heart rate jumped up, and he began to sweat in the heat from the glowing coals. He did not know where he was, and he did not know who confronted him through this veil of smoke, but he felt certain that he was in the presence of great evil, and that for his soul’s sake he must fight. He dared not give away his identity, yet he could not lie. Those piercing eyes, he was sure, would certainly detect a lie. Indeed, he feared that the truth would somehow travel between them on the breath of a lie.

Owen stood there silently, unable to turn from the power of the eyes that held him, but determined to reveal as little as possible, to remain silent, if possible. As he stood, the pain in his chest slowly began to build. After a time, the pain became nearly unbearable and he sank to his knees. The eyes followed him; held him; would not let him break contact.

“What is your name?” the sorcerer whispered again. Owen was not sure whether he had actually spoken; the question seemed to come from somewhere in his own mind, and at the same time echo from all around him. He could no longer see the sorcerer’s face, only the darkly glowing coals, the green fumes and those eyes. The pain continued to mount. Soon it would consume his entire existence. Was this to be his death? Owen steeled himself. His determination rose with the pain. If this was to be his death, he was determined that this sorcerer would profit nothing from it.

“
Owen, Owen
,” he could hear his name echoing in his mind as though it wanted to escape, to leap across to the hooded sorcerer and end the pain.

“Owen, Owen, wake up.”

“Boy he never sleeps like that at home. What do you think is wrong with him?” Marian asked.  It was Jack’s watch, and she had only just awakened after a brief sleep that left her more tired than refreshed.

“It’s got to be that infernal brass headpiece again,” Jack responded. “I’m really starting to hate that thing.

“He’s coming around. Owen, are you awake?”

“No! You’ll learn nothing from me!”

“Jeez, keep your voice down. You’ll have the whole castle down on us.”

“Sorry, sorry,” Owen sighed realizing with relief that it was Jack’s face in the moonlight leaning over him. He drew his hand across his face, trying to wipe away the terror that had just filled him. He was drenched with sweat despite the flow of cold mountain air that was sweeping down from the West Wall and filling the valley with the icy touch of impending winter, but at least the pain in his chest was receding.

“I was having a bad dream. What is it? What’s going on? Are we under attack?”

“No, no, just keep your voice down. Something is going on at the castle. I just saw a large contingent of gorn, maybe all of them; it’s hard to tell in this moonlight. They were coming down the ramp into the valley. I think that they are heading back the way they came; back towards South Corner.”

“Do you think it’s another raid?” Marian asked.

“Yeah, I think so. Either they are going back to loot the town, or they’re headed for the farms, or both.”

“So much for getting any more sleep tonight,” Owen muttered with a deep sense of relief.  “You and Marian have got to get warning to our fathers,” Owen declared.  “You can’t wait ‘til morning, you’ll have to pack up now to get ahead of them.  I’m going to stay here to keep an eye on the rest of their force. Maybe I’ll be able to figure something out by the time you are finally able to bring reinforcements.” ‘
Like where that hidden passage comes out
,’ he thought to himself.

“If you’re staying, then I’m staying too,” responded Marian, determinedly.  “It won’t take two of us to raise the farmers.  They’ve already gathered at the Campbell’s place. Jack can get to them on horseback well before the gorn arrive. Besides, you’ll need someone to watch your back while you sleep.” ‘
And wake you up again, too
,’ she thought, worriedly.

“All right, I guess it won’t do me any good to argue with you.  It never works for our father.  But in that case, I’ve got another job for you.  Ride with Jack as far as the watchtower.  We need to know whether the gorn investigate the fate of their companions there, and what they do next.  It would be a useful thing to know if thirty or forty gorn decide to start sweeping these woods in search of us.  I’ll stay here to make sure that no other surprises come out of the castle tonight.”